“Oh, I didn’t need books when I was in the first flush of puberty,” he said. “I used to get an erection on the bus just looking at all the pretty schoolgirls going up and down the stairs.”

“You’re a pervert,” I said.

“But the first book that made me miss my stop because I was unable to leave my seat due to the large bulge in my trousers was Cider With Rosie.”

“By Laurie Lee?”

“Indeed. That old English classic. It’s a rural idyll. And you can’t have a rural idyll without a romp in the hay so why they give it to pubescent boys as a set text at school I’ll never know. It’s like putting a stick of dynamite down their pants.”

“Dynamite?”

“Well, you know what I mean. I looked like I had a stick of dynamite down my pants when I got off that bus anyway. And then we had to write our own memoir in a similar vein. The teacher even gave us the title. The First Bite Of The Cherry. And you call me a pervert.”